


And So the Flamingo Fell in Love With the Wolf

by CarpeDiemForLife



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: #EatTheRare Fest, Canon Divergence, EatTheRare, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 19:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12196170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarpeDiemForLife/pseuds/CarpeDiemForLife
Summary: When Chilton shows up on Will's doorstep, bloodied and desperate, Will has every intention of turning him over to the FBI. But then he hears something that changes his mind. Canon divergence 2x07.My take on what could have happened if Will had chosen to harbor Chilton rather than call Jack.





	And So the Flamingo Fell in Love With the Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> For the #EatTheRare event! First chapter of a WIP.

For a man covered in blood, Chilton was remarkably polite. He made no move further than the porch until Will gave explicit permission. Only then, and not without a curt and sincere _Thank you_ , did he enter Will’s home.

Will waited until he heard water rushing before he picked up his phone. He had no love for Chilton, he owed him no kindnesses, but he would do this for him anyways. Calling Jack now was, after all, a kindness.

Chilton would try to run, and that would do him no good. It would only mean months (if that long) of fearful anticipation for the man, never an untainted breath or steady heartbeat. Chilton thought he had a chance, but he didn’t. The chase would be far worse torture than if he were simply caught now and spared that painful chapter of his tale. The conclusion was inevitably the same. One way or another, Hannibal would get the fairytale ending he had penned so carefully in blood.

And that ending was Chilton in Jack’s custody. Whether life in prison or some worse fate awaited Chilton there, Will did not know, and frankly, he did not care. The general administrator of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane was not his problem.

He pulled up Jack’s name on his contact list and placed his thumb over the CALL button.

A sound broke his concentration. He halted. It came again, from the shower. Quietly he paced the floor to the bathroom. He waited, head tilted towards the door. Again the sound came, only this time Will could identify it.

A sob.

Will inhaled sharply. Another sob, this one followed by a series of sniffs and halted breaths, as though Chilton was trying to stifle his bodily expressions of agony.

Suddenly the picture was clear in Will’s mind. Chilton stripped down to his black undershirt and his briefs, stripped of his dignity, Zeller and Price rooting through his pockets, his life, his being, judging all they found there and misinterpreting, assuming, wrongly _knowing_ that Chilton was the worst of monsters. They would not listen to Chilton’s pleads of innocence because Chilton would know better than to give any. He would be silent, accepting all that happened to him, because he could do nothing else. He would become no more than an empty shell as they picked and dissected and _judged judged judged_ —

As they’d done to Will.

Something tightened inside of him, his left fist tightening in response. His thumb hovered over the button, not quite able to press.

He scoffed at himself and plopped down on a kitchen chair. The duffel bags that Chilton had deposited on the kitchen table stared at him.

This was ridiculous. Calling Jack was the _kind thing to do_. False hope was a poison, and it would kill Chilton slowly. That plus the adrenaline of terror, injected into his bloodstream day after day until his eventual capture. No matter what, Hannibal would get his way. There was no version of events where Hannibal _didn’t_ get his way, so there was no use in even fighting it.

Or was that only what he wanted to believe?

Bile rose in Will’s throat. Did he honestly want to call Jack because it was the kind thing to do? Or was it because he secretly wanted to help Hannibal’s plans come to fruition?

No. No, that wasn’t fair. Even if he let Chilton go, Hannibal’s plan would _still_ come to fruition. In fact, Hannibal probably _intended_ for Chilton to go on the run. So truly, turning Chilton over to the authorities _now_ was as close as Will could come to _defying_ Hannibal.

Unless... Hannibal _knew_ that Chilton would come to Will. But how could he—?

He could. It was pointless to think otherwise.

Was calling Jack what Hannibal wanted? Whether he called Jack or not, in the end, Chilton would be caught. Either way, Will’s decision played right into Hannibal’s plans. God, that infuriated him. Free will was no more than a pretty illusion. He was caged in a box of mirrors. No matter which way he turned, the image before him remained the same: Chilton in handcuffs.

The sound of running water stopped. Any moment now, Chilton would emerge. It was now or never.

Door number one, or door number two? Inside his mind, Will spun in a tight circle. Mirror, mirror, mirror, mirror. He bared his teeth. Chilton in cuffs, Chilton in cuffs, Chilton in cuffs, Chilton—

With a violent twist, Will smashed his right fist into the mirror. The image fragmented into a thousand broken shards, then rippled. The Chilton who had been blank-faced in his arrest now trembled and cried.

He threw a second punch. The mirror shattered in a cascade of shimmering glass and forgotten reflections. He stepped out of the box and into the blackness beyond.

“Will?”

He blinked. Turning his head up, he found Chilton at his shoulder, freshly showered and clothed. He wore a bizarrely genuine expression of concern. Will blinked again.

“You can’t run,” he said.

Chilton shot him a disbelieving look and huffed a laugh that was more panicked than amused. Hurrying to his bags, he shoved the soiled clothes into the one already unzipped. “What other choice do I have? There is none. Hannibal made quite sure of _that_.”

Will said nothing, only watched Chilton’s frantic movements.

“I have the same profile as Hannibal Lecter,” Chilton ranted. “Same medical and psychological background. We are both doctors of note in our field. Of course it would be me! Hannibal was never going to kill me. I’m his patsy!” There was a pause. He looked around, no less panicked. Then, “I have to leave the country. I’m leaving the country.”

“No, Doctor. You’re not.”

Chilton stopped dead, his eyes flashing to Will with shock. Will had a feeling that it was not so much his words that had earned this reaction, but rather the fierce, authoritative tone he had delivered them in. If there were a chair near Chilton, Will felt certain he would have collapsed into it.

Will stood, pinning Chilton with his stare. Past his surprise, fear now invaded Chilton’s body, its presence so tangible that Will felt its vibration in the air.

He wondered suddenly whether Hannibal would be able to smell Chilton’s fear. What would it smell like, acidic? To Will, Chilton’s fear was a creature of rock and air, solid and yet shaking, filling the space around him. Rough, ragged, bursting with static.

Chilton’s eyes flickered towards his gun. A second later—not as bad a reaction time as Will would have guessed—the gun was in his hands, pointed at Will. The gun shook, a disingenuous finger on its trigger.

“You’re not a killer, Frederick,” said Will.

He took a step closer. Chilton’s hands shook harder, but no bullet emerged to silence Will’s breath.

“And today,” he continued, “neither am I.”

Chilton sucked in a sharp breath. Several seconds passed.

Releasing a long stream of air, Chilton all but threw the gun into the open bag, hands relieved to be rid of it. “All right then,” he said.

He lifted his head and sniffed, almost pompously, as though attempting to regain some authority over the situation. Will was simultaneously struck by amusement and a swift regret at having chosen to spare this man from his Hannibal-ordained fate.

“If _killing_ me is not your intention, what _are_ your plans for me?”

Will smiled without warmth. “I hope you’re not allergic to dogs.”

*

Dumping Chilton’s car was the first order of business. This was completed in a matter of hours.

Next was the task of integrating Chilton into Will’s home. It had to be done in such a way that it would comfortable for him to live there, but any unexpected visitors would not suspect his presence. As such, Chilton’s clothes were mixed in amongst Will’s in the bedroom dresser. The few toiletries he had packed, namely a toothbrush and toothpaste, were hidden away in bathroom drawers.

All this Chilton bore with dignity. It was only Will’s final stipulation that had him shaking his head a vehement _No_.

“If I wanted to share a bed with an unstable, sweaty man,” he said, “I would have gone to the YMCA.”

“I don’t have a guest bedroom,” said Will, graciously ignoring the comment on his hygiene. The accusation of instability didn’t even phase him anymore. “If you sleep on the couch, anyone who comes by early in the morning will see you. And you’ll end up with a life sentence because you were too insecure to share a mattress with another man.”

Chilton shifted on his feet, pouting. Will watched him. Waited.

“It’s your choice, Frederick,” he said. “I’m certainly not going to force you.”

Chilton wouldn’t meet his gaze.

Turning his attention elsewhere, Will rounded up his dogs with a few calls. They swarmed around him, tails wagging as he led them to the front door. Will looked back over his shoulder as he lay a hand on the screen.

“I’m taking the dogs out for exercise,” he said. “Not for long; it’s getting dark. While I’m gone, you can decide how much your life is worth to you.”

Hinges creaking, the door swung shut behind him. Chilton was enveloped by silence.

Frederick Chilton stared out at the world of trees and snow and clouds and wind. A world that was barred from him by a single door.

He knew that stepping beyond that door was far too risky. And yet to be left alone made his heart pound with fear. The world he’d been left in was unnaturally still. Isolated. Like solitary confinement.

He grew ill at the thought. He longed for Will to return to him, and quickly.

 _Will_. Will Graham. A man whom he despised, and who by all accounts despised him.

A man who had forgiven Chilton his trespasses, and offered his home as sanctuary from the Devil’s bloodhound.

Chilton swallowed. He turned around and made his way to the bedroom, staring at the contents within. Well. There were worse things than sharing an intimately-sized bed with a non-intimate acquaintance.

Imprisonment, for one. Death, for another.

A shudder ran through him, head to toe. The sheer horror of his day fell over him, a waterfall of moist darkness and screams.

Limbs shaking, Chilton undressed down to his undergarments. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked out the window.

*

When Will returned he found Chilton already in the bedroom, dressed and ready for sleep. He had not yet laid down. Instead, he sat on the opposite side of the bed, feet planted on the floor, back to the door. Will leaned against the doorframe, waiting.

He did not have to wait long. Barely seconds after he’d entered, Chilton turned his head over his shoulder. Enough so that Will could see his face, but still so Chilton could not comfortably raise his gaze to meet Will’s.

“I didn’t know which side of the bed you prefer,” Chilton said.

“This side is fine.”

With a nod, Chilton lifted the meager covers and slipped beneath them. He lay on his side, back still facing Will. He made no sound at all. For a moment Will stared at his unmoving body, lost in thought.

He returned to the front room, where his dogs covered the floor like some peculiar quilt. Quietly he said, “Buster.”

The little dog leapt to his feet and scrambled to Will, panting his eagerness at the summons.

“Good boy. Come.”

Buster followed Will into the bedroom without hesitation. Will closed and locked the door behind them. Normally this was not his custom. He liked to leave the door open in case any of his dogs wanted to wander in or out during the night. But now, protection of his guest was vital. This was merely one more necessary precaution.

When he turned around, he saw Buster sitting obediently on the floor in front of the bed, knowing better than to jump up without permission.

The dog’s tail whipped into a frenzy as he met his owner’s gaze. With his hand, Will gestured a path to the other side of the bed, where Chilton lay. “Go on,” he whispered.

Buster sprinted around the corner. In a leap and a bound, he landed himself on the narrow strip of mattress between Chilton’s chest and the edge of the bed.

Chilton’s body jolted. “Oh, uh...” he began to say, his voice made deeper, darker, richer by the night. “No, doggie, that’s uh, that’s not...”

As though he could not hear the other man, Will shed his own outerclothes and flicked off the light. Chilton’s protestations died. Will slipped beneath the covers. Beside him, he felt the shift in movement as Chilton curled closer around Buster.

Will smiled into the darkness.

His dreams that night were not of feathered stags and dying things, but of sun-kissed grass, pompous flamingos, and little spotted dogs.


End file.
